


Eyrie

by GraceEliz



Series: Shelter of his Wings [2]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Force Bond (Star Wars), Found Family, Gen, Mating Cycles/In Heat, No Smut, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Padawan Anakin Skywalker, Platonic Relationships, Rated T for swearing, Stewjon is space Scotland, Wings, in a "I see an unacompanied child and I keep it" way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: Eyrie: a large nest of an eagle or other bird of prey.Also, the term applied to the apartment of Vos, Kenobi and company in the Temple and a pet name of sorts for the flock used by them and their friends.
Relationships: Bant Eerin & Obi-Wan Kenobi & Garen Muln & Reeft & Quinlan Vos & Siri Tachi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Quinlan Vos
Series: Shelter of his Wings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808101
Comments: 56
Kudos: 110





	1. Heritage

**Author's Note:**

> Will be posted into chronological order.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen days after the live holotelevision near-disaster of Obi-Wan and Quinlan announcing their intentions to bring the topic of slavery in outer regions onto the Senate floor the Stewjoni embassy arrives on Coruscant, winged warriors wearing twisted gold and beaten bronze and beautiful bright weave, wings flaring out at their sides in obvious threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What the heck, brain? Stop piling prophecy things into my fic. Take that plot and get out. I wanted a chapter about Obi-Wan's family and got *gestures* this. Why.

Every one of the Initiates is given the opportunity when they teach the age of eleven (or equivalent) of learning about their home planet and its culture, for multiple reasons. For some people, it is mere curiosity, such as for Siri, for others it’s connection to people to remind them what the Jedi stand for like for Reeft, but for others there is necessity. Both Quinlan and Obi-Wan have been given bits of their cultures their whole life, because their wings mean they cannot simply be raised as Jedi like so many others. What is a creche-leader to say when asked how long it takes to be able to fly? What is one to do when the younger boy manages to glide from a ledge but the older still cannot? All the little nuances, all the details he would have intrinsically known if raised by his birth-family. 

Thirteen days after the live holotelevision near-disaster of Obi-Wan and Quinlan announcing their intentions to bring the topic of slavery in outer regions onto the Senate floor the Stewjoni embassy arrives on Coruscant, winged warriors wearing twisted gold and beaten bronze and beautiful bright weave, wings flaring out at their sides in obvious threat. Their ship lands on the Temple’s own landing pad, met by Master Yoda himself, accompanied by the Eyrie. 

It will be the first time anyone except Yoda and Obi-Wan have met his birth family from the beautiful green mountains of Stewjon, and he is excited and nervous over it. First off the ship is his father, the Chief of Clan Gregor, Donal, followed by his sister Fionna and brother Eion, and finally another warrior whose name he has forgotten if he ever knew it to start with: all decorum is lost as soon as Fionna sees him bouncing on his toes, full of nervous energy, crossing the pad in a single swoop. 

“Alexander!”

“Fionna! You have new tattoos,” he exclaimed. His sister grinned at him, her rusty wings gleaming in the sunlight. 

“They’re for my first solo hunt,” she informed him with great pride, arm still slung over his shoulders, twisting her right forearm about to show the blue swirls. Eion sauntered over to them, Father hanging back to talk to the Jedi Master, tucking himself easily into the group hug. For all they hadn’t been raised together as kin should be, they still sank into easy rhythms of co-existence, arguing over nothing, playfighting, communicating in fewer words than anyone expected of them. It wasn’t the thoughtless communication of flock-leaders he and Quinlan were developing, or even the coordination of teaming up to train with those you know as well as yourself. Their kinship felt older, deeper. As one, the three turned and walked into the Temple, chattering all the while about the twins and the Clan and the four little children in the shuttle with their father who were here to be tested by the Jedi. Obi-Wan remained the strongest Force Sensitive child in the Clan, but their line had always birthed kings and seers.   
Waiting for them in the vestry was Master Windu, who greeted them about as fondly as he ever greeted anyone before heading out to join Master Yoda and the ambassadors of Clan Gregor.

“Why do you represent the whole planet, anyway?” 

Both his older sibling rolled their eyes at him. “Kings and seers, little Ander,” aa-ndrr, slurring out some letters and rolling the r, “We have always been the leaders. Do we not live in the very heart of our land? Are our nests not the highest eyries of all? Are we not the mightiest warriors and keenest eyes?” Fionna demanded of him, keen green eyes meeting his. 

“We are the leaders of our people,” contributed Eion as quietly as ever he did. His word was the final word, even for the Clan elders. He was the greatest seer in five generations – pale, drawn, trembling hands, but he could hit a rabbit’s eye from many meters up, throw a dirk with terrible precision. 

“Well then,” said Obi-Wan – Alexander, the protector of men, of all people, regardless of where they lived or who they served, “let it never be said I don’t respect my kin.” 

They all smiled the same smile, their wings a three-tone harmony, their steps perfectly unified. The Temple smiled upon them, as did Her inhabitants, guiding their steps into the Garden of a Thousand Fountains where there was space for flight for the elder two. She was deeply pleased by the kinship between the three children of Stewjon. Echoes of the future rang through her, whispering that the winged children who walked her paths would change the galaxy. So be it. 

In the garden, Eion passed his satchel to his little brother. “From our Clan, for you. As support for your cause against the slavers.” He pinned Obi-Wan, eyes pale washed-out blue like wintery storm skies skewering him where he sat. “We cannot survive as slaves. Open the bag.”

Out of the leather bag fell a set of gilded dirks with blades sharp enough to cut bones, a compressed bundle of tartan in his Clan colours, and pins. Silver, gold, bronze, pins of all sizes and each a different knot. “What do they mean?” he asked, running his fingertip over the swirls and twists. 

“They are the Clans, each clan. Do you see the seal, the wave, the fish?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “Nobody else will. These are of our people, of the Mother. And this, this is of our Clan,” she told him, drawing up a gold torc like those worn by the elders – by mother and father, and Eion and herself. Her callouses brushed his neck when she swept his braid out of the way of it, the metal cold where it settled. 

“It’s too big.”

“You will grow, Alexander Mac Gregor,” said Eion like a promise, or a vision, “you will be spectacular.”

Kings, queens and seers ran in his blood, coloured his feathers. Jedi held his hands, guided his blades and his voice. The Force itself led his heart. Spectacular, they said. Yes, breathed the Temple to those who heard her, this one is to be the Champion.

Champion of what, asked Yoda? 

Of life, whispered the Force, glowing like a beacon around the three angel-children, champions of life.


	2. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan goes through a rut, and may or may not have requisitioned a couple of younglings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex, no smut, no discussion thereof, just a lot of dadding of small children.

“Padawan Kenobi, are you unwell?” 

He shook himself out of his daze, tearing away with difficulty from the meditating clan of younglings under Yoda’s tuition sitting in and under the huge pear tree. “No, I’m fine,” he answered brightly, falsely. Lying to Masters wasn’t a good habit but it was near compulsive now to do so, to hide pain and injury from everyone except flock, lying through his teeth and using the Force to make himself last until he managed to reach the Eyrie and his family. Nobody had really taken him up on the myriad of omissions, not with him being an Alpha and a winged (read: feral) teenager at that. Ruts and heats, as far as the Temple at large knew, were things that happened to other people, not the pair of winged young men whose instincts could and would kick into overdrive. After all, everyone else got mild heats from thirteen upwards and Obi-Wan and Quinlan were human, right? Near human, at the furthest. Someone would notice a rut or heat by time they reached seventeen and twenty respectively, everyone said. 

Great lengths were taken to ensure nobody noticed. This meant that Quinlan’s first heat went unnoticed – everyone thought he was off-planet with Master Tholme, except the Eyrie and a very few relevant Masters including Che and Yoda. He had in fact holed up in their room and sulked for a week. Thankfully he didn’t have a mate, or suitable other significant other. Obi-Wan took his role as protector very seriously, and chased the last one out of the apartment with a wooden spoon. Younglings were always welcome, in fact maybe he should talk to the guys about taking some in to care for, because some of those little ones looked too tiny to be out of the nest, especially that little red twi’lek, and the brown-skinned human there, they were especially tiny chicks. 

_Longing, Obi? Are you stealing children?_

_I could, couldn’t I?_

_No._

_You did! You literally put Aayla, aged two, in the creche for two nights only when you brought her home, which was how long it took us to refurbish our bedroom, the end bedroom, and baby proof the Eyrie._

_...... Don’t get told off for it. Get permission first. I’ll be home in thirty hours, unless Tholme gets kidnapped again, in which case I’ll need to do some ass-whooping._

_Those bairns are tiny...._

_Attention, the Eyrie, our Obi-Wan is planning a child heist,_ Quinlan informed the flock through their pack-bond, his amusement echoing through it, undertoned with sharp attentive concern. 

“Obi-Wan Kenobi!” 

“Sorry,” he apologised, snapping his attention back to an exasperated Master Xiora, “I’m getting a migraine.” Most people knew of his visions and migraines. The oncoming rut was not helped by the visions of a tiny blond blue-eyed baby he’d been having for two months. According to Fionna, the visions of someone else’s bairns meant he was going to meet and raise them, or train them as his apprentice maybe. 

Someone laid a hand on his shoulder, jerking him out of his musings. Garen, and his scent was worried. How long had he been out of it? Dangerous, losing his focus, he couldn’t protect his flock if he lost focus, but surely if his focus was on those two extraordinarily tiny younglings over there – barely more than babies, they’d probably both fit on his chest – was a reasonable trade-out? They had other alphas in their pack, Bant and Reeft, and with Siri the secondary omega and Garen the more-or-less voice of reason null the flock would be fine. 

_Why are you taking me away?  
_

Down their bond, private, away from the wider flock, Gar heaved a sigh. _Because we don’t want everyone to know you and Quin have ruts and heats, remember? If you go around collecting tiny chicks and nesting people will notice. This is for your and our and their protection._

_Fine. But I want a chick._

_Yeah?  
_

He nodded, lost in thoughts. Satine would be a good mother, and as a null she’d be a preciously stable influence to counteract his sheer feral-ness. Family colours should be used to build the nest, but bes-kar did not lend itself to tender touches that a newborn chick would need. The Clan tartan would have to be another, but the flock would contribute to the nest too, as was their wont. Only he and Quin nested. 

Maybe he could have Aayla for the week. 

“Hey, Master Lorta! Is Master Kira around?” 

“You’re here for Aayla,” answered the young Dresallian, “I’ll fetch her. You know where to sign the books and such.”

“Where’s the bairn,” he asked, knowing the sharp Coruscanti accent was blurring into the accent of his region and the language of Stewjon. None of that mattered, only the rising panic in his stomach that the flock chick was not where she could be protected. His bright wings flared, held high above his head instinctively, a beacon for the chick to return. Little Aayla’s scent wound down through the foyer of the creche, mingled with another, a milky scent, some near-human or human child about her age, he deduced correctly. The two toddlers raced to him. 

“Uncle Obi!” 

“Hello, my little one,” he answered, sweeping her and the little boy into his arms, sheltering them single-mindedly under his wings, “who might this be?”

“’m Luce! Short for Lucian!”

“What a good name,” he marvelled, heart lost already (the ache still there, the longing for a chick only marginally less consuming) to the sweet smile and skin the shade of Reeft’s fifth-day coffee. Little Aayla tucked her head to his scent gland on his neck, nestling in how she did against Quin, letting him get a good whiff of her. 

“You purr!” cried Luce, eagerly pressing his ear to Obi-Wan’s chest, striving to hear better through the layers of his robes. 

“I do.”

_You stole a kid, Obi?_

_Blame Gar, Siri, and anyway it’s a biological compulsion. At least I didn’t pull a Quinlan and steal one completely._

_I’ll be home tonight for late-meal, but Gar will put me a plate in the fridge if I’m late. See you later._

_Okay, be safe.  
_

The Eyrie was easily found by those in the know: only three corridors from the upper level of the creche, up a short staircase, and it was the second of four apartments, easily distinguished by the picture of them on the door drawn by Aayla. Quin and Obi-Wan’s wings filled most of the background, with the tiny blue figure of Aayla in Quin’s arms, and the rest of the flock lined up between the two winged flock-leaders. 

“This is where we live,” Aayla informed Luce as they waited for Garen to unlock the door, “Masters Frisk, Alya and Nita live opposite and we have to be quiet in the day because they do night shifts.”

Luce nodded his understanding, peering curiously through past the kitchen wall into the living space. Under Garen’s direction, he kicked his shoes beside Aayla’s, scurrying off after the little twi’lek into their room. 

“Are you alright, Obi-Wan? I need to finish my classes, but I won’t tell anyone obviously, and as far as the creche know Aayla is having Luce over for a sleepover for a few nights.” Indescribable, was the word for dear Garen’s endless kindness and generosity and tolerance of the energetic pack upheavals caused by heat and rut cycles. Thank the Force they only happened three to six times a year for the vast majority of species; Kiffars got lucky on two heats or ruts a year. 

“I should be fine. Stay safe, all of you, and answer your comms and keep your bonds open, and beware of –”

_Obi, we will all be fine, okay? Promise. Go get some rest, or play with the kids, or at the least check they’re not trashing your half of the room._

_I wouldn’t mind.  
_

Laughing aloud, Garen answered, _no, I suppose you wouldn’t right now. If I find more kids I’ll let you know._

_Thank you,_ he said a touch distracted, drifting through the kitchen to fill water bottles and collect some of the pastries Aayla liked, most of his attention on the children in his room. A rut for Obi-Wan wasn’t some holo-porn whimpering mess, but rather a mental stress that left him feeling physically ill, with psychological damage arising if a child could not by some method be procured. 

Fionn and Eion, his elder siblings, assured him it would only get worse, whilst Mairi and Ben the young twins had offered to come stay with him on Coruscant. The clan had roundly refused that suggestion. Since their fifth birthday, they’d been dedicated to finding their Jedi older brother a suitable mate. Apparently Satine had been the top option, until she’d effectively broken his heart last year. Fionn didn’t seem likely to forgive: the woman held a grudge that was only outlasted by the twins. 

“Oh!”

In his bed, curled into his tartan, the two younglings peered up uncertainly. “Is this okay?” asked Aayla, tugging him down to the bed so she could perch behind him to preen his wings.

“This is perfect,” he replied honestly, tugging Luca onto his lap, the humming lullabies of his homeland rising out of the depths of his memories. Songs of old warriors, of carrying children to safety through hard lives, of storms weathered in high eyries. Flock and Clan, those who lived under one name and tartan and raised their chicks, learned to fly in the high peaks with the lochs glinting below. He sang of clouds forming half-way up mountains, of soaring out of eyries in dim dawn to hunt with the eagles at his side and his sister screaming out the war-songs, his brother skulking low through the forests to drive the huge deer onto the plain. 

He sang, late in the night when the children slept and Garen slept and Siri sat with them to eat her meal, of losses, of oppression, the songs of death-is-freedom and we-are-a-people. Perhaps, he mused as he tugged his tartans around, making the nest warmer, perhaps there was something in the reasoning of those who chose to step to the outskirts of the Order, to supply in place of fight.


	3. Hatchling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tattooine: dry, dusty, all-around terrible experience.  
> The kid he found on Tattooine: perfect, a blessing, a beautiful cinnamon roll, peak son material.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written, second chapter chronologically (so far).

Tattooine, in Obi-Wan’s righteous if unwarranted opinion, absolutely sucks, and it can feel free to continue burning away under the double suns that bake it dry until the Force runs out and the stars grow cold for all he cares. In fact, it can continue burning for even longer because he’s twenty-five years old and finally stopped growing and maybe-maybe-not starting to get broody. Quinlan will absolutely never let him hear the end of it, not after all the shit they gave him when he brooded Aayla. But his point is, he’s of an age where he’s ready to strike out, craving the chance to hunt and prove and wanting to nest – he’s a definite late starter for a Stewjoni: they usually build their first nests at 16 and have their first brood within four years of that. 

He’s overdue kids, is the bottom line, and he can’t even go out and fly and hunt because they’re not meant to be here at all, and last time they did some digging Siri figured he’s worth in the region of 23k on private slave markets – more than any of the others because he’s a handsome Force-Sensitive winged redhead of a species that almost always carries twins or triplets – so if he gets seen, they’re all in for it. And he is bored, so damn bored he reaches along the strongest bond in his heart. 

_Yo, Quin._

_What the nine Sith kriffing Corellian hells are you doing here? He sounds both amazed, and a little furious._

_That was mild, for you._

_Obi-Wan._

_We’re supposed to be on Coruscant, having escaped Naboo, ran into some trouble and stopped here for parts._

_Well, you’ll get them, if that headstrong Master of yours doesn’t do something so risky even I am impressed._

_Haven’t you been cheating at sabacc with the Hutts?_

_I’m probably better than you now._

_Don’t bet on it, brother._

_Funny. What’s wrong?_

Indeed, that’s the question, is it not. For nine years he’s put off the ever-strengthening urge to brood, adopt, raise, love a brood of his own, and now the instinct is almost choking. Carefully, secretly – for he wouldn’t show even his best friend Quinlan if Quin didn’t have wings of his own, wings he flouted and killed anyone who touched, the same predatorial parental instincts – the bond-walls slid down around his innermost heart. 

_Ache longing nest children possessive brood chicks children mine missing._

_Sweet Force, Obi-Wan. Have you never even had a heat?_

_I’m an Alpha, Quin,_ he thinks, amused. Puberty for their group had been dramatic, to understate the matter, given that they had two raptors and three Sirens – Quin was both raptor and Siren and omega – on top of the usual mess of hormone upheaval and Force access. 

_Oh yeah, gotcha. No ruts?_

_.....One._

_Oh, Obi..._ Quinlan is not a sympathetic being: Kiffars are by nature harsher than other raptor species such as the Stewjoni. For his brother to be so honestly sad means he must be projecting down the bond, but Quin has always encouraged him to allow his emotions. 

_It’s just, hormonal self-pity._

_You can have this grief for her and what you could have had. Emotions must be processed before they get released._

_Our broods would have been beautiful warriors._

_Yeah. You’ll be a good dad._

_You are a good dad._

_Obi at this rate we’re both gonna be crying messes and then the rest of the Eyrie will pick up on it and then we’ll get swarmed._

_I miss them._

_Me too._

The brother-pair grieve their should-have-beens another minute, allowing emotion to move freely along their bond and thence to the Force. Unattached does not mean unloving, but letting go of the objects of said attachment has always been their difficulty. 

_How are you doing, Quin?_ asks Obi-Wan tenderly, treading carefully over sensitive ground. Along the bond comes a sensation he associates with Quin slumping onto his back with a groan. 

_Damn, Obi-Wan, I never thought I could miss anyone this much, not even that second time I moved out of our shared quarters,_ cries the young Knight into the Force. _I keep looking for her, or making her breakfast, or thinking to get her something and she just not here and it’s absolutely awful._

_I’m sorry._

_A deep inhale. It isn’t your fault, dear one, but when I’m home I’m holing up in the Eyrie with Aayla and you and the others and none of you are allowed to leave my sight._

_Brooding much, Quin?_

_I’m overdue a heat, it kriffing sucks._

_Ouch. Will you be alright if I go? Master is on the comms and I’m a bit scared of what he’s got himself into this time._

Hesitation – even though Quinlan walked the line of Light and Dark and knew his limits, it is still hard, almost as hard for him as for Obi-Wan, to admit a weakness. _Leave it open, a bit? I won’t listen in but I need grounding. I’ve been lonely._

_I missed you too, brother mine._

The impression of a toothy smile, flash of yellow, unbound hair spiralling madly over strong shoulders, outlined by dark feathered wings flecked by the same shade as the yellow stripe. All the things that make Quinlan, Quinlan. How awful it must be, he muses absently on his way to the cockpit, to have to be so far from your chick. How old is Aayla now? Thirteen? Not old enough, certainly, especially for an omega father – he has it on good authority that letting brood out of sight of the omega parent is a surefire route to mad panic. The Captain smiles easily at him as he sits in the navigator’s seat he occupied on the journey in. 

“Master.” 

“Obi-Wan, how are you doing?” 

Well, that is unexpected, and a bad omen. Any conversation with his Master on a foreign planet that begins with inquiries into his health and wellbeing usually winds up with Obi-Wan talking the man out of taking in yet more strays. “I’m...not great, but okay. I talked to Quinlan.” 

Surprised, Master Jinn answers, “I hadn’t realised he was in this system.” Then, “Dear Force, all this way from the Temple... How is he holding up?” 

“Frankly, desperate to get back to his hatchling,” admits Obi-Wan. Telling Master Jinn would do no harm, not with the way he and Tahl shadowed each other. The Eyrie had a betting pool on how long they’d been in love. Nobody had considered anything less than twenty years – Garen, in a bout of alcohol-fuelled bravery, had actually sent a message to Master Dooku about it. 

His response had been a picture of him raising a single eyebrow. 

The pool continues rampant. 

Qui-Gon hums in understanding. “Give him my best wishes.” 

_He says he hopes you get home soon._

Quinlan responds with mental finger guns, typically. 

“There’s a boy. I’m sensing something big in the Force surrounding him, but his presence is muted. He’s a slave.” 

“Yeah, that would mute it alright,” snarks Obi-Wan, wincing at the thought. His hand drifts to the ragged scar over his knee where his chip had been back – back then. 

_You okay?_

_Bad memory._

_Share?_

_Really bad._

_Sorry._

_S’okay._

Qui-Gon sighs over the comm. “I feel terrible bringing it up like this but I want to do a midichlorian count on the boy. He’s something special alright.” 

Frowning, he answers, “Do you want me to run it now, or do we wait?” 

“Better run it now. I’m a little surprised you’re awake, apprentice mine, this late at night,” remarks Qui-Gon, undoubtedly with his eyebrows raised into his hairline. 

“It snuck up on us, I guess. It’s like that with Quin.” 

Qui-Gon sends affection-softness down their bond, trying to comfort the gaping hole of yearning growing in his stomach. Their Masters are more or less sympathetic to the needs of the Eyrie flock, and Qui-Gon has got much better in the last couple of years at knowing when to soothe and when to simply let Obi-Wan’s’ thwarted instincts run their course. Getting to this place of easy banter and affection took a long time, but they’re here now, even if he does have to deal with the constant string of creatures and plants he always tries to take home with them. 

The count runs, and he stares. Frowns, runs it again. Well, damn. How did a sandy death-pit of a planet give birth to a kid with a midichlorian count on a scale Obi-Wan has never seen before? 

_Do you know this kid? His midis are off the charts._

_Maybe? Who is it?_

“His count is exceptional,” he tells his Master of, aware of the gentle curiosity radiating from the pilot, “What’s his name?” 

“His name is Anakin Skywalker. I think he’s a child of the Force.” 

_Ani? Yeah, I know him, or know of him. He podraces, and he’s good._

“Quinlan says he’s aware of him.” 

“I’m not surprised. I’ll be back in touch, Obi-Wan, sleep well,” and his Master ends the call. 

_I just know this can’t end well._

_Nope. Hey, you could adopt him!_

_I can’t just do that._

_Why not? I did._

_Yes, and out of us, I’m the one who supposedly follows the rules._

_Eh, nobody would be surprised. You’re easily as possessive as I am, just less violent with it._

_That’s because you’re a heathen, Quin._

_He can have the room next to Garen._

_Do I get a say in this?_

_Nope._

_Go to sleep._

_Only if you do._

_Why are we friends?_

_I might be a mad friend but I’m your mad friend._

_Go to sleep._

_Goodnight Obi._

_‘Night, Quin._

Master Jinn is in so much trouble, he’s genuinely going to ground the man if he has to make the case to the Council himself. Who just acquires a child alongside the hyperdrive? How does that even occur to a mind? If Obi-Wan ever actually gets to give his opinion on this fiasco he will be having some very, very strong words on the subject of gambling lives, the nature of podracing child pilots, and slavery as a whole. In fact, he has a whole damn presentation prepared on his padd back in his room (which has felt empty, so empty, without Quin to share it with). Arms crossed, he waits at the foot of the ramp, under the Sith-damned sun on the Force-forsaken dunes. Last night’s sandstorm had been terrifying, he is not ashamed to say, and he is furious with Master Jinn. Doubtless he won’t have thought to actually disable the boy’s slave-chip if he even knows where it is. But, oh, don’t worry, he thinks bitterly behind his shields, Obi-Wan can fix it, he doesn’t hold selfish attachments, he can sort anything out. Tonight’s meditation is going to be a long one. 

Oh, no. The kid’s cute, maybe even cuter than Luce. Adorable, in fact, and tiny. He may or may not let out an audible coo which attracts a funny look from the Queen pretending to be a handmaiden, but thankfully the boy in question is too awed by his wings to comment. 

_We’re keeping him he’s mine mine mine_

_Obi, you good? Your hind brain is in dad mode._

_Quinlan, have you seen how cute my baby is?_

_Oh dear. You don’t get this possessive over Luca and Breyl._

_He’s MINE!_

“Are you an angel? I thought Padmé was, but you definitely are,” chatters the boy. His Force Signature is indeed suppressed, blending well into theirs, but it burns like a growing star underneath. Someday, this child will indeed have the power to rattle the very stars. 

After Obi-Wan has located and deactivated the slave-chip in the boy’s chest (a long operation is in store) the child is placed into the care of a pair of handmaidens, who also seem to think he’s adorable, whilst Obi-Wan and the crew wrangle the engine into place. 

In his nightmare when he snatches a nap after they take off, he dreams that a red devil attacked them, but in his subconscious, he knows it cannot be – something is telling him that this red devil will be important, but not how could have been in one life. He’ll have to ask Master Windu about it, because it didn’t feel like one of his usual visions. This one was something new. 

_Hey, have you been having visions?_

_No? Ask the rest of the flock. It could be Aayla, but she’s never had visions before. Transmitted nightmare, maybe._

_I will when we’re closer to Coruscant. I’m not sure who’s on planet._

_Thought you were to Naboo first?_

_Aye, but –_

_You said aye. What’s wrong._

_Vision._

_Call Bant, Obi-Wan._

_I’ll do it tomorrow. We’ll reach Naboo in two hours, and I need to debrief my Master and adopt the boy._

_I knew it!_

“Yeah, whatever,” he says to the ceiling, _you’re so full of shit._

_I love you too._

“Wheesht, y’arse.” 

“Wha’s gon on?” 

Is that sleepy voice in that bundle of blankets on the floor there Anakin? Oh, no, if he picks up all the words falling about the Eyrie on the daily they’re going to be in so much trouble. They all swear like sailors – but then so does Anakin probably. “I didn’t know you were here.”

The boy flinches, a little terrified of punishment. His scent is mild and young, a typical human null scent. Any pretence that he doesn’t care for this child goes straight out of the metaphorical window, and he drops to his knees in front of him. “I will never ever hurt you, Ani,” he swears, “I will never cast you aside, and if you like you can live with you me.” 

“Qui-Gon said he’d train me,” says the tiny being, subdued by some worry. 

Did he? Well, that’s not a surprise, but it does hurt, being cast aside like so much dirty water or last week’s leftovers. “Well, that’s okay, you can live with me but train with him,” he manages, wondering how he’ll manage this. “I need to meditate, do you want to join me?” 

“Can the Force really do anything?” 

“Yes. When you truly believe and have the strength, you can do anything.” Anakin fits into his lap as if he was born to be there – maybe he’ll stay small enough to always fit. Safe in the cocoon of his wings, he closes his eyes, and breathes, lowering his shields enough to feel Anakin’s smouldering embers. “Can you feel me?” 

“Yes! You feel like safe places.” That’s good, very good; it will help the father-bond snap into place. 

“Match your breath to mine. I want to talk to Bant, so I’m going to seem like I’m not listening to you, but if you need me you can push me and I’ll wake, okay?” The little boy nods against his collarbone, soft hair tickling his exposed neck, and they settle into the swell, ebb, flow of the Force around them. 

_Hey, Bant._

_Obi! How are you?_

_Good, I think I’ve found a chick._

_You’re joking._

_Technically Master Qui-Gon found him, but he’s mine. Quin said he can have the free room._

_Siri will finally have to clear her junk._

_He’ll probably sleep with me most._

_Is your room not crowded, with you and Quin and Aayla and Anakin in there? She’s staying with me at the minute, in her room most nights, but she misses Quin._

_Tell her he’s fine and misses her too._

_What did you need?_

_A dream vision, can I share it with you?_

Surprise, repressed alarm. _It’s the night, but yes. Garen will hear if I scream. He’s working on his thesis._

_Oh, I forgot my thesis, Sith-spit._

_Dream first, exam panic later._

He shares his memory of the dream, but Bant can’t help him beyond telling him he’s fine mentally and should let his Master and any other trusted people know it too, just in case the vision-seizures make a return. They spend a pleasant half hour or so sharing sensation and releasing troubled feelings to the Force, gently withdrawing when an alarm on Bant’s end rings. She’s on night shift in the Halls. 

_Goodnight, Obi-Wan._

_Have a safe and boring shift._

A sharp burst of pain explodes into the Force, almost knocking him out of sync with his body for a dizzying frantic screaming second. He bursts into awareness on the floor of – where – the ship, the Queen’s ship, to Naboo, but where is Anakin? 

Oh. This is going to be interesting, he thinks sarcastically on catching an eyeful of chick-soft wings the exact shade of his sprouting from his chick’s back. 

_Obi-Wan? Are you alright? What was that?_

_You know how Anakin is really powerful?_

_Yeah?_

_He’s given himself wings._

_That.... That cannot be possible._

_He almost knocked me out, and he’s definitely knocked himself out. Gimme a sec._

Darling Anakin is dead to the world, a tiny trickle of blood on his lip from his effort to give himself wings, his heartbeat steady under Obi-Wan’s palm. The wings are beautiful, like his were, and so delicately boned still. He is for a certainty far too young to leave the nest, and they will be holed up in the Eyrie for easily three weeks when they get home, given how long it will take for him to calm down from That New Dad Panic and for Quinlan to arrive home and brood. On the bright side, he now has a chick of his own to soothe the yearning of his soul into a longing far less painful, with wings to match his that cannot be mistaken for anything but his. On the negative side, Master Windu is absolutely going to have his hide for this. Maybe he should have Qui-Gon drop him off at Stewjon to put another few weeks between him and the Council. 

Anakin stirs. “Hello, my chick.” 

“Obi-Wan?” 

“Yes, I’m here,” how very tiny his son is, “I’ve got you.” 

For a few minutes all is silent, hushed. Anakin shuffles a little. “Are you my dad?” 

“Do you want me to be?” 

“Yeah.”  
_I have a son!_

_Congrats Obi-Wan, I’m very happy for you. Now you can come talk kids and late nights and embarrassing incidents with me and the others._

Oh, he will never stop smiling over this. “My son, my Ani,” he croons, nuzzling his nose into Anakin’s hair, “I will never leave you.” 

The clan will be almost as excited as the Eyrie. Unfortunately, Master Qui-Gon may be considerably less excited. Never do now what you can put off to panic over, eh? Best to just cuddle his exhausted new son close, groom the beautiful new wings, and try to comprehend what is going on. Coruscant is a few hours away, yet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a prompt? Some feedback? Anything?


	4. Nabboo and the Red Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan is too tired for this, and Anakin is being eldritch. He's planning to continue ignoring it,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Not yet, Ferb."

So they didn’t go straight back to Naboo like he expected, because nobody ever actually thinks to tell him anything at times like this. They’ve not even been back on Coruscant for two days, only long enough for a few world-shattering claims from Master Jinn (last names, being cast aside has him more than a bit furious, but the hot of anger is shadowed easily by the aching hurt) and a trip to the Healers for them all to get checked over and for Anakin to have some discussions about operating to remove the chip in his chest, which they reckon will cause problems as he grows, but which will also be a long operation. The sooner the better, is Bant’s opinion. Her second opinion is that Ani is seriously cute and they’re definitely keeping him. 

Queen Amidala institutes a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum. Siri comes home, takes a mug of gin as a shot, then lies facedown on the carpet for four hours whilst Obi-Wan catches her and Bant up on stuff. Garen and Reeft are out on the town, so they’re going to meet Anakin in the morning, since he’s been sent to bed so the adults can do, as he said, adulty gossip bitching, which was hilarious but sadly accurate. Being informed that he and Master Jinn – and yes, fine, your son too, don’t think we won’t be having words about this later, Padawan Kenobi – must accompany said young Queen to the war-strewn planet is disgruntling at best, since he hasn’t actually slept in between the nightmare-visions and new son and scrawling through the Archives via the holotelevision connection Master Nu had permitted them and preening and the hour spent lying on the kitchen table with his thesis, definitely not crying into a bowl of dry cereal. 

He makes himself let go of all the emotions as best he can, sat on the little futon with his wings slumped whilst he digests all this. Take his chick – okay, yes, hatchling, technically – into an active war zone? Under the guidance of “live in the moment who makes plans anyway” Jinn? This is a punishment. This is all his attachments come to bite him. Given his luck, all he needs now is to bump into Satine. Again. He pulls himself away from that distracting thought. 

_Guess who’s back to Naboo._

_Ouch._

_I know, right? I’m pretty sure he has a crush on Queen Amidala._

_Huh. He’s nine though, he’ll grow out of it. Aayla did._

_Hm, okay._

_I can see you brushing your imaginary beard._

_Oh kriffing hell he’s going to hit sixteen and I’m going to still have a baby face, I’m going to have to grow a beard._

_You’ve got some time for that yet, bro._

_Maybe so, but it’s still a concern. Well. At least the kid is only nine, right? Must be a lineage thing to fall in love with politicians._

_Oh, kriff me._

_That’s Satine’s job._

_What the hell! Quinlan why. Why. I hate you._

“Obi-Wan stop laughing at Quin’s dirty jokes and go to sleep!” Siri screeches from her room, hurling what sounds like a pillow into her door. “Go to sleep! You’re out at ten tomorrow!” 

“Gnight, Siri,” he laughs, and slides into Quin’s bed. He leaves the door open a crack, just enough that if he wakes before Anakin he should be able to get out without waking him. 

Obi-Wan doesn’t sleep more than half an hour together. Master Qui-Gon leaves him very much to himself the next morning, and Siri steps in to fetch hot food from the canteen, but he is, overall, grouchy – the fact his thesis remains half-written is not a help, at all. At least nobody needs his direct input in conversation. The journey passes in a ‘don’t talk to me unless we’re literally seconds from death’ haze of sleep deprivation and soft childish wings tickling his neck every time Anakin wriggles in his lap. At least none of that terrifying influence over the Force gets used. 

Once awake, planetside, a whole pot of tea and counting, and suitably scolded for running off with the Queen then bringing her back again then leaving then returning, so on so forth, Naboo’s remaining pilots scramble, and Anakin is ordered to stay in the cockpit of the sleek yellow fighter he took refuge in ten minutes ago – he’s a pilot, what is Master Jinn thinking, this cannot possibly end well, but at least he’s out of the fighting – as they approach the red demon flipping and snarling at them. His skin is black-marked red, eyes glowing yellow both by nature and the Dark Side, the red glow of his saber a violent highlight of his natural skin against black robes. Zabrak, Dathomiri. What was the term – Nightbrother. They visited once, four years ago, just for a few hours. 

Not even the Nightsisters and Mother Talzin felt so dark as this, this falsity parading as Apprentice. All here is not as it seems, tells the Force, tells his blood-kin-Clan ability to See in his very bones and blood and muscle, this creature is a demon built, not a demon born. Oil slips into the Force, oil slick as grief and terror and sticking as desire for what lies out of reach. 

Someone must die. Someone must die. It will not be Obi-Wan, and this demon – well, it seems the Force has plans for him. Master Qui-Gon must not die, however; he is not ready, nor strong enough, to go it alone. 

“What do you mean, Jedi, someone must die and it will not be us? I assure you it will be you two,” snarls the demon, curious enough to break what Obi-Wan is sure must be a long habit of silence. Oh, he had not felt himself slipping into the Force so deeply as all that, but the stress is finally getting to him, all the problems of missing his dyad-brother and adopting a son and having held his peace when the little Queen made ridiculous demands of them. He is so finished with all this. 

“Just, what the fuck, dude,” he says, “I can’t even. I have elected not to be. This whole shitshow is now someone else’s Sith-damned problem. What is your aim, here, anyway?” 

Both the demon-acolyte and his Master look completely thrown off their rhythm. 

“Maybe I’m just, like, hallucinating, because I accidentally drank some of Reeft’s five day caf when I nipped home for a change of clothes before we came back here, and I had a really fucking weird nightmare about you on the way from Naboo that I still don’t understand, and I don’t know what the Force is going on because my kid is some half-eldritch whatever. Who just does that?” he cries, throwing his arms up, lit blade sending both Master Qui-Gon and the demon skittering away from him and each other. “You can’t just do what he did!” 

_Hey, you okay?_

“No I am not okay, Quinlan! I have thought none of this through, nine kriffing hells of Corellia.” 

_Are you in a duel?_

“I’d better not be in a duel, I do not have the braincells for that right now. Maybe I should get a blaster, or better yet, a straight up gun. You know what the Mando’ade did right? Shrapnel to the face. Brutal efficiency,” he lectures, since he might as well lose his mind completely, right? Bant is going to be assigning mandatory mind healer sessions for all this crap. “Maybe I should just sleep more, right? But like. No. I’m getting Knighted soon and have to deal with adjusting to having a chick. A son! I’m twenty-four! I should have chicks already, let’s face it, but I’m getting a hatchling like, oh, hey, sorry about all this but I’m your dad now we’ll go save your amu some other time when I’m not trying to handle a whatever this is.” 

_You lost your swing, there._

“Shut up, Quinlan,” sighs Obi-Wan tiredly. He casts his eyes plaintively on the demon. “Can’t you just, give in and come quietly?” 

“No?” responds the creature, seeming confused by Obi-Wan’s rant and the concept of surrender. 

_I want to go home now._

_I know, Obi-Wan._

_I’m mad._

_I know, Obi._

_Kriff this, right?_

_Yeah. Here._ Through the dyad, Quinlan passes him a shot of something green and slimy and evidently alcoholic, assuring him that it will settle his nerves. Or, you know, knock him out. At this point he’s willing to settle for either. Master Jinn and the wannabe-Sith don’t entirely look like they want to know what’s going on which is understandable, this whole thing is fine, thanks and bye, he’s out. 

Obi-Wan heaves a sigh, handing the glass back to his intangible counterpart. “Just, go home, or something?” 

“I have no home.” 

“You’re Dathomiri, start there, but avoid the Sisters,” he advises over his shoulder. “Come along Master, we’re leaving. And you, red Demon thing, if I ever see you again I’ll cut you in half.” 

“...Right?” 

“Tata, awful meeting you, a pleasure, let’s never do this again.” 

_You get that off your grandad._

_He is not my – whatever._

Anakin is gone off doing whatever it is he’s planning. Master Jinn is near. Quinlan is doing the mental equivalent of patting his shoulder sympathetically as he marches back to the pilot’s hangar. Captain what’s-his-face and those badasses masquerading as lady’s maids can handle whatever is going on in the Palace. He curls up on his robe behind a box and, to put it in Eion’s words, conks out. The universe can kindly piss off until he’s had some sleep. 

(In a different life, he half-dreams in his exhaustion, dreams he forgets on waking, he is maybe not well rested but certainly better rested, and narked by this latest acquisition which has pushed him to the curb, and angered, and lonely, and his Master – the closest to a father that Obi-Wan has – dies at the hands of a monster he then kills or does not and who causes so much suffering for him and those he loves. In this life, he is exhausted, in a near-trance to try regain some balance within his mind, and he doesn’t sense the demon approach his Master shrouded as he is by shadows, doesn’t hear the cry of alarm, the loud thud as Master Jinn falls to the ground. Quinlan is protecting his mind, but he too is sleeping, like they are otters holding each other in a current as indeed they are in the Force, so they do not hear. They do not hear.) 

Abrupt, the Force shoves him into alertness. It screams that something is wrong, startling him into awareness even as dream-visions linger in his mind. What is the gaggle of people, there, why do they call for him so? Who is that laid out and choking on pain? With a sharp choke, he realises, as though the galaxy snapped into place like a saber-crystal. 

“Master Jinn!” 

“Padawan Kenobi,” yells the medic, “Jedi tricks would come in real handy right now.” 

Force healing is not one of his talents, nor one of Quinlan’s, but by dint of much effort Bant has forced them all to learn a more than basic level of field healing for “situations”. Well, he thinks snidely through the panic and fear, this is a “situation” alright. 

_Holy Force, is he going to be okay?_

_How would I know?_

Focus. Healing requires focus. Obi-Wan sinks into the Force rather more rapidly than is advised by anyone, grasping at the pain-wrongness of the wound and the Light strands of good health about his Master’s Signature. The wound is a simple one to deal, the result of a metal blade sliced between vertebrae to fell but not kill. 

It’s almost – kind, compared to what could be. The Demon could have stabbed him in the heart, could have sliced his throat, could have some any number of truly torturous deeds to cause the slowest, most lingering death. Even Obi-Wan can think of some, most of his attention on his effort to heal the damage done to Qui-Gon’s lower spine. A single surgical slice to sever the nerves, leaving his Master almost certainly irrevocably damaged, but alive. Alive. 

Pushing on the Force, he instructs: live, bind, seal, repair what is broken by Darkness’ stain. 

_Do you think I’ve done enough?_

_Yes._

_No, I can’t have done. I must do more._

_You have no strength left to give!_

_Help me._

Quinlan inhales, pushes against the dyad, yanking at the Force until it concedes and buckles under their desperate efforts, allowing him to pull himself on Obi-Wan's Force Signature until he is on Naboo, not a mere observer from a million miles away. “Always, brother. Give me your hand.” 

The loud exclamations of alarm from the goggling locals are no distraction. Together in the Force, so fresh as they are from a joint meditation, they are near indistinguishable, a swirl of perfect balance. If they are ever going to be able to tap into true Force Healing abilities, Obi-Wan knows it will be now, this moment. Distantly, he senses the raging heat of Anakin – his son! – focused with almost dangerous, if childish, intent on some other purpose, flitting in and out of the Force at large. Sewing what they can of his Master’s nerves and ligaments feels like, well, sewing, if he sewed by envisioning bursts of blue-green-white pure Force through the dull tones of an aching Force Signature, and all around them the lesser Signatures of their non-Sensitive audience dance and loop and burst and fall and rise, Anakin brighter than two suns far above them. They work and work until most of the damage is done – irreparable, yes, but they’ve saved Master Jinn, and that is the most important thing. With the last of their energy Quinlan tries to fade back through their dyad, that Force ability that neither of them understand which should allow him to melt back to his own place in the universe on Tattooine, but he fails, their energy reserves drained to a mere pulse of the supernova they should be. 

Distantly, as he falls to the ground beside his Master, he notices that there is a disturbance far up in the battle, and that Quinlan is still with him. 

They wake out of the exhaustion-induced stupor only when they feel someone plucking at them in the Force, dazedly pulling out of the currents of each other to find themselves under the concerned faces of Masters Windu and Yoda. Somewhere near, Quinlan coughs, and Obi feels their wings brushing and sighs with the relief of it. Why is waking under the eyes of Healers such a common occurrence for them? What does the universe have against them? “Hi,” he rasps. 

“Dad,” Anakin cries out, leaping into his lap and wrapping his arms tight about Obi-Wan's ribs. “I was so worried,” he says, head tucked into Obi’s neck how he seems to like. “I made the Force help you and Master Qui-Gon, though. Did I do good?” 

He helped? How did he help? “How did you help?” 

Anakin smiles up at him with the sort of adoration that makes Obi-Wan uncomfortable, as though he is the sun in the centre of Anakin’s orbit. “I made it give you more energy. You drained your dyad, so I gave your Force back to you.” 

He decides, there and then, never to think too hard about the gifts his boy has been given by the Force itself, and also never to bring them up within earshot of Bant and Reeft, who will doubtlessly decide to study the boy and his abilities, and of course the whole Force-sentience thing is going to come back. Thank Force, he sighs, I didn’t do about the Force for my thesis. “Thanks, I think,” he finally says. “Are you alright?” 

“I blew up the space station!” 

Obi-Wan decides he wants to cry. 

“I will watch your career with interest,” the kindly Senator says with a smile. Freaky old man gives off an oily sensation in the Force, which isn’t particularly panic-inducing to anyone except himself and Quinlan – he is, after all, sidling into their hatchling’s space. Both Quinlan and Obi-Wan bare their teeth – Quin’s are blunted by a Force suggestion, until he gets angry, and then he drops all the mirages and lets people see him as a predator with all his unnatural teeth, and Obi-Wan smiles a toothy, if human, smile of Alpha aggression. This man is prying into matters that do not concern him. Brown and copper wings stretch out, cradling Anakin in a protective wall of feathers. 

_I want to bite him._

_Not yet, Quin,_ Obi-Wan warns, ever the more restrained one, not that he really considered that to be a particularly high level of responsibility, but he was definitely less likely to chew on people than his dyad-brother. 

Obi-Wan, very politely, in the manner that makes people forget he’s the Plan Guy of this chaos duo, does not answer the Chancellor, giving no hint to his silent conversation. Behind them, Mace is supervising the transfer of Master Jinn from the Royal Hospital to the medical transport sent by Vokara, the woman herself loud and perilously calm as she gives direction. “Excuse us, Senator,” he says with a smile, “I believe we are needed.” Obedient to their Healer, both young Jedi bow to the Senator and draw Anakin away, still wrapped in feathers. He oozes a lazy power in the Force that is already giving Obi-Wan a headache. 

“Vos, you are to return to your posting,” she tells them easily, as if she doesn’t know separating them hurts like being away from the Force. 

He sighs. “Yes, Master.” 

“Enough of your lip,” Healer Che warns, then smiles warm and fond at them. “Keep an eye on that boy of yours, Obi-Wan,” she adds, “Anakin, watch out for him.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he pipes up, wings rising in pride. “I will,” and Obi-Wan hides a sigh, slowly easing out of the swirl of the dyad even when the Force eddies sadly about them as he does. He has the feeling his son is going to cause him more trouble than any other person in life, and that includes Master Qui-Gon and Quinlan and Siri. 

So long, brother, says Quin with a hard hug, and they turn from each other with further ceremony. It only hurts, and they’ll be together again soon anyway. The Force itself insists on that. He’ll just keep ignoring it until it throws him a vision. And then he’s going to sleep through it.


	5. Home at Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing an Obitine bit, which should have been a oneshot and has become a doc of it's own. Due to...the nature of it.....it'll be attached separately. What do I mean by that? I mean I finally let them swear at each other.

“What does this tattoo mean?” asked Anakin, touching his finger to the swirls coiling up from Obi-Wan’s right wrist. 

“My life. That’s my birth, but look,” he said, rolling his sleeves up, “It continues all the way up. There’s a Way to it, little one, and I go to Stewjon once a year or two years to get them done.”

“Wizard,” breathed the boy, blue eyes wide. “Can I get them?”

“Don’t you have your own symbols we can give you? Unfettered, maybe?”

“How do you know of the Unfettered,” snapped Anakin, drawing back warily. 

Obi-Wan removed his outer robes, then his belts, and finally his underlayer to show the blue whirling paint rippling down his chest and back, wrapping his shoulders. Over his heart lay an image he felt sure Anakin must know: a pair of interlocking circles over a ‘U’ surrounded by five smaller arcs, each a slightly different shape and length. “This is my planet’s freedom. This represents the sun and moon over the Great Glen, and these are the Five Lochs, which is our word for lake,” he said, touching each mark in turn, “and having it over my heart is a sort of nickname, I guess, or title. Braveheart, or free heart.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Anakin honestly. 

They spent another hour discussing Obi-Wan’s tattoos, how they linked him to his home people and their battles, why feathers didn’t feature in the tattoos (because to be without wings meant you were dead, basically), how for a long time his home had been a spout of mostly peaceful states, but finally his continent had united and thrown off all their oppressors. It was a small yet violent world. 

“Does your country have traditional clothes?”

“Yes. I’m not sure who had them out last – if Siri’s spilled anything on my tartans again I’m kicking her out,” he swore, wings flaring in annoyance. Jedi taught no attachment, which he and Quin had rapidly translated to no attachment that can’t be released after their burst of interest in Grey Jedi aged ten, but the little pieces of his heritage had value. 

_Hey, who moved my tartan?_

_Bant,_ said Siri so fast she obviously knew something. 

Bant rolled her eyes. _Throw me under the bus. Have you checked your box?_

_Yep._

_Then it’s in the sitting room, on the top of the blanket basket._

_You’re in? I’m on my way down, I’ve had Initiates for mechanics again. Make some tea?_

_I’m a bit occupied, Gar._

_See you in a minute._

_I’m going out tonight with Karé and Lisha from the office, but I should be home by 1,_ Siri said. 

_Does Quinlan know?_

_I do now. Who do I need to bite?_

_I’m 23, not 16, Quin._

_Still mine. I’m the oldest._

_Shut up, Quin.  
_

Smiling at his family’s antics, he stood and led Anakin into the sitting room and gestured in the vague direction of Garen’s disgusting corner sofa for him to sit, turning questioningly when he didn’t sit. 

“Where can I sit?” Ah, yeah, the slave upbringing.  
_Will he process through this?_

_I mean, I guess? None of us grew up anywhere but here. I reckon you’ve got the strongest link to your birth culture but even you don’t get separation anxiety, and your homesickness is for people not a place, ‘cause you’re an Alpha alpha. And when you were, you know, it wasn’t for long and it wasn’t your upbringing._

_He’s going to be hard work isn’t he?_

_All children are.  
_

“Anywhere but Siri gets upset if you put your shoes on the furniture, so you can either take them off and put them on the shoe-rack near the door, or keep off,” he said, wrangling the expanse of fabric. It was always larger and heavier than he expected it to be, and he always fumbled the first attempt. Anakin nipped over to the door to put his shoes away. 

The lock clicked. “Heya lil Ani, where’s Obi?”

“Here, Gar,” he greeted, grin wide, turning to face his friend, part of his flock, tartan draping down to the floor in his hands. Garen raised his eyebrows. 

_Real impressive, Obi,_ he said into the group bond. It felt like Reeft sniggered behind his shields – where was he, anyway? Usually he met him at the port. 

_I’m the Alpha, I have to look like this._

_Is Siri still beating the ladies back with a stick?_

_You should have seen her yesterday when I took Ani into Coruscant to look at the Temple from the Station. I thought we’d get arrested.  
_

They winced in unison. Mace had threatened to ground the Eyrie, all their friends, and their Masters if they had to be picked up from an overnight stay again. “It’s good to be home,” said Obi-Wan honestly.

“Thought you weren’t attached to places,” teased the slightly older man. 

“Missed my flock, didn’t I? Can’t possibly leave you all on your own without your Alpha.”

All the group of age-mates had missed each other more than the Jedi would have encouraged, but all of them knew their priorities, that the Order came first. The Jedi, the continuation of the Force, the search for balance. Eyrie, they called themselves.

No other group of age-mates had lived almost independently since thirteen even as Padawans, but Obi-Wan and Quinlan had bonded so fast they caused a scandal, and as they were both winged they’d stuck together. As it turned out, their instincts as Alpha and Omega sparked far wilder than usual in any species: Quinlan had once bitten a Master who tried to take sixteen-year-old Bant out for a meal to get to know her and the other Medical Initiates. He had been and remained unapologetic. Who could have predicted the flock’s Omega would have done so? Obi-Wan had. They all had. In the Eyrie, they’d developed into a sub-pack, so to speak, of the Order at large, with Obi-Wan the protective Alpha and Quin the even more protective Omega. 

Garen laughed, ruffling Ani’s hair. “Guess so. But so far you’re the only one of us with an actual genetic kid.”

“Um, I’m not actually his son,” said Ani, “I just want to be.”

Obi-Wan preened, deeply pleased by his chick’s claim on him. With their matching wings, nobody would refute Obi-Wan’s right to Anakin’s presence, even if many Jedi would disapprove of it. Traditionally, chicks and hatchlings lived in the crèche until the age of eleven or thirteen, but since Aayla moved in aged two, they probably wouldn’t have a problem letting Ani move in. Siri would have to get rid of all her junk in the spare room, though, and they’d be kinda pushed for guest space, but it wouldn’t be a problem. 

Maybe the Architect’s Office would finally let them knock through into the next apartment along which was currently empty. They seriously needed another shower if Anakin was going to be with them full-time – yes, he could move them into the Master-Padawan rooms he would be able to ‘inherit’ or apply for a new suite, but why would he? This was where his family lived, so it would be where he lived. The Eyrie could be a mansion, a planet, a cave, and he’d still be happy as Master Fisto in a lake as long as the flock were near

Garen cocked his head, a birdlike gesture they’d all picked up off Quin, and asked, “Obi, my dear friend and brother, would you like a hand with that?”

“Yes, thank you,” he admitted, “I should wear these more often before I take Ani to Stewjon with me, or my sister and brother will be awful. They still bring up that time I got so drunk I threw myself off a cliff every single time I go back.”

Unfortunately for him, Anakin looked far more interested in that than he had in any of the Force techniques they’d been exploring so far. Somehow, he had the feeling lessons on Stewjoni culture, and then Kiffar, would form a key part of the curriculum. Maybe the whole flock can go for a week or two, maybe even a month. It did after all take four days to get there from Coruscant, unless Garen had upgraded his shuttle again without breaking something. Supposedly, Quinlan would be home from the hell planet Tattooine within a month, so the Council could probably be convinced to let the Eyrie head out before the end of the Stewjoni summer. 

“Can I get a – one of those?”

“A tartan? Yes, if you’re my son,” oh how fiercely proud he is to finally have a chick of his own, “I should think my father would be proud to give you one. Colin, my mother’s cousin, should be able to find you one of his kin’s old ones, his sons are your age.” Family colours were inherited: passing cousin to cousin or father to son or sister to niece encouraged the Clan bonds. 

Anakin lit up. “I have cousins!” 

“Yes, I suppose you do,” agreed Gar, laughing at him. He glared – it wasn’t his fault he was only realising just now how big of an impact this would have on his families. Let Gar be the one to call the Clan and inform them of the new hatchling, he wouldn’t be laughing once Fionna got on the comm to him, or heaven forbid, got on the holo. Maybe they should do a flock holo tomorrow when everyone got back from work, study, and in Siri’s case, Dex’s. Kill two birds with one stone and all that. “Promise you’ll catch me up when we meditate tonight?”

“Yeah, group meditation for definite tonight when Siri and Bant get in,” Obi-Wan confirmed, twitching the fabric to hang it just so, with the symbol of his people’s freedom over his heart the most visible tattoo. The blue-greens of his tartan sets off the bright copper of his wide wings, the blue-grey of his eyes. He feels Garen’s approval echoing down their bond, which is like a spider’s-web between them, stronger than durasteel and light as silk thread, and for the first time since the disaster on Naboo Obi-Wan Kenobi allows himself to let go of the pain to allow himself to feel the joy of his family around him.


	6. Tattooine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is frightened, but she pushes it aside, reaches for the sense of peace serenity from the Force. He was taking revenge, right? But he stopped.   
> He stopped. 
> 
> It’s okay. 
> 
> Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Padmé! Currently taking votes (let's face it my prompt box is NEVER closed) on whether we want Padmé and Anakin in this fic... Give me the ideas, readers.

Padmé is gobsmacked by this vicious, poisonous denial of all Anakin’s feelings towards Obi-Wan. Stress, it must be, she is sure, but there’s something so very wrong about this that it makes her queasy as if the air is filled by oil fumes or burnt nuts. It mustn’t have been easy for Ani to go through rescuing his mother from the very brink of a painful death, may Nahj grant her the healing sleeps and Talé bless her blood, but to blame it all on his dad? This is more than some delayed teenage pushing of boundaries. 

“Holding you back?” 

“Yes! He never lets me go anywhere or do anything, he doesn’t trust me.”

Quicksand, or sandstorm. That’s what she’s picking up in the Force, with what little ability she possesses, far from the gentle waves and rivers of Obi-Wan’s Signature. Anakin’s wings are held as high as they fit under the desert stone roof, sand caught in the russet plumage, dust making the feathers look almost sick. She is frightened, but she pushes it aside, reaches for the sense of peace serenity from the Force. He was taking revenge, right? But he stopped. 

He stopped. 

It’s okay. 

Right? 

He said he didn’t kill them all, and she believes him. Anakin is a terrible liar. A good actor but he isn’t acting, and he isn’t lying. 

“Maybe he’s just scared of losing you,” she tries, pretty certain that’s the case, an oh there is that stare that feels like being stripped layer of skin by layer of muscle down to absolutely nothing but your soul, that stare that reminds this is Anakin Skywalker, the Hero With No Fear, who doesn’t need to fear. How does anyone forget, she suddenly wonders in near-hysterical base terror, the sheer otherness of Anakin Skywalker the child of prophecy and the Force? How do they forget the freezing press of his anger or the sun-hot glow of his love? 

How do they have no fear of him when even Anakin’s irritation strikes a cold pang into the pit of her stomach? 

In moments he softens to her, still so full of anger and pain, but now a possessive condescending sort of hot affection towards her. “Something like that,” he agrees, soothing her, doing nothing but saying words for her benefit to keep her happy and calm. Willingly she accepts his offered embrace, sand passing from his clothes to her own, gritty under her fingers. His infatuation is a press of sun-heat. This...this is unwise. 

Padmé has made a mistake.


	7. Clone Interlude: Aliit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clone Interlude, in which the brothers compare the levels of ridiculous that their Jedi reach, and Bly regrets almost everything, but not half as much as Fox does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE FOR THE CLONES I will do you whatever scene you want  
> Remind me to explore the Sirens aspect of this 'verse at some point

They are a team, the Alphas and CC unit and Rex, and a few very select others. Their lives revolve around the concepts of survive and protect – indeed, the very things that form the basis of Mandalore. It is their private meetings that provide them with guidelines on handling Jedi, where Rex and Cody advise Bly how to handle Aayla and her Jetii-buir with his wings, where other vod pass advice on feeding growing predators, on what to do when tantrums and nightmares explode walls. Domestic, if such a time as war and clones thrown into the thick of it with the Jedi could be domestic.

“Have you ever seen a Jetii-buir as angry as General Kenobi gets?” asks Cody of whoever may know. Bly nods, but they have all heard the tales of how General Vos tears the still-beating hearts of those his Aayla points him at. Everyone is glad he’s freelance, secretly: any battalion of clones under his command would be even more feral than the Wolfpack, which, for the good of the galaxy, should definitely be avoided. 

“I saw Master Windu destroy a battalion of beskar’ade one time,” whispers Ponds, “All because little Commander Caleb – his grand-padawan – was afraid.” They all shiver in respectful silence for half a minute, remembering the terror of watching High General Jedi Master Mace Windu tear through his friends in training exercises with only marginally less brutality than the baskar’ade on the battleground, that eery horror when Generals Windu and Billaba go up against Vos and Kenobi in a display of might that sends shivers crawling up even Cody’s spine: they dance like heralds of death. 

They need to stop letting each other read the horror stories and epics Master Nu lends them from the Temple Libraries. 

For another hour they hang around on the holo just catching up with each other, sharing their Jedi’s latest escapades, sending each other well wishes, and scribbling down names of people and planets who can help out. Growing Padawans are the pride of each battalion, but it’s dangerous work in their line of business, certainly no place for a growing child. Not when they struggle so hard to feed some of them. Oh, the humans are alright, and a few of the predatory species can and will eat anything, but some like the Togruta need consistent meat intake to grow healthily. In time the conversation dims. They know, as all vod know each other, it is the time to discuss the latest Happening.

“So I know we’re all wanting to know,” starts Fox, “what exactly went on with your Generals yesterday.”

Cody and Rex share a glance. Wolffe grunts at them, both comfort and command in one. 

“We’ve seen a lot,” Rex says quietly to the room and his vod both here and present by holo, “but we all agree that General Skywalker is something more, right?” 

The vod nod seriously. 

He inhales, “We were outnumbered, as often, but it was fine, you know? Just a standard oh here’s the mad ones they’ll fix it kind of day. But then General Kenobi fell. Straight down out of the sky, blaster bolt to the wing. General Skywalker...”

Cody picks up where his brother trails off. “He screamed for him, you know, like he does sometimes, and there was this – explosion, I guess, but like it was an explosion in the Force. And then he said something, an order, and this creature of – ”

“A creature terror and righteous fury, some ancient god, that burst into being because General Skywalker commanded it to.”

The vod have nothing to say. What remains to be said by them that hasn’t already been spoken? For love, whisper some rumours; for fury, whisper others. His eyes burned Sith-yellow, his eyes burned blue like fire, his eyes glowed white. 

“What did he look like?” Ponds asks.

“Like a god. Like, if he ordered it, the whole planet would bend to his will, that the entire existence of every being within his reach was waiting for judgement,” says Cody flatly. “It was the single most petrifying experience of my life.”

“It wasn’t a standard feral protect-the-flock outburst like we’re used to.”

Silence again, broken by Fox. “I can go to the Archives and as Archivist Kenobi to help us. She might have more information.”

“She’s his...kin? Clan? What do they call it?”

“Clan and kin, so blood and clan both. They’re cousins of some form. Kenobi isn’t their family name,” provides Fox, reaching for his comm and clicking it on. “Heya, just me. Can you get back in touch when you can? Thanks. Fox out.” Click, who is probably the fastest typist in the Coruscant Guard, practically lives in the archives, since it’s his job to find information and pass it on. He coughs meaningfully, making cheeky eye contact with his brother, who flushes.

“Oh?” asks Wolffe, always the first to scent a secret. “A crush?”

“No,” protests Fox, but the scent has caught, and Wolffe never loses a scent. For another half hour all is laughter and teasing and chasing each other in and out of the holoscreen. Life isn’t easy, or kind, but neither is it all cruelty and pain. 

“Wait,” asks Ponds, remembering the comment about clan and kin, “What is General and Archivist Kenobi’s real name if that one isn’t?”

“You know,” says Rex, “I have no idea.”


	8. Clone Interlude: Command Tent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan chokes, alarmingly, but by time they’ve returned their attention to him from the report Fox and Click were giving he’s already past “chuckle” and into full body laughter, with tears brimming, leaning his weight on the ramshackle table. He laughs so hard his wings tremble, beyond even the half-familiar shaking. Unsurprisingly, Vos follows him, sniggering as is his way.

Watching the Generals work can be fun, but also exasperating. They’re having another of their silent conversations, where their responses are too fast and too detailed to be truly ad lib. Whatever today’s conversation is about it’s certainly playing on their sarcastic shared sense of humour. Probably telling each other dirty limericks to see who cracks first, he thinks, or comparing embarrassing stories about each other. The little crinkles at Vos’ eyes, the not-quite repressed lift of Kenobi’s top lip, the dart of Anakin and Ahsoka’s eyes between the two, mystified as much as the rest of them. Vos is stood with his wings spread, blocking as much sun as possible, whilst Kenobi leans over the table to move the troop markers whilst they break down the attack strategy. 

Rex and Cody are both watching carefully for the moment he breaks. 

They miss it. 

Obi-Wan chokes, alarmingly, but by time they’ve returned their attention to him from the report Fox and Click were giving he’s already past “chuckle” and into full body laughter, with tears brimming, leaning his weight on the ramshackle table. He laughs so hard his wings tremble, beyond even the half-familiar shaking. Unsurprisingly, Vos follows him, sniggering as is his way. 

“What? What did you say? What’s so funny?” Anakin demands, never one to allow himself to be left out.   
The two older men meet each other’s eyes, and devolve into more laughter. Cody sighs. Yeah, Rex feels his pain. “Generals, please,” he begins. Vos interrupts with a word Rex doesn’t recognise, but Anakin must because he looks mightily confused by the way Kenobi shrieks and falls over, still laughing. Younger members of the temple appear to be under the illusion that Quinlan and Obi-Wan are best friends because they are polar opposites, which is utterly ridiculous. They’re best friends because they help each other get away with it. 

Case in point: this now redundant planning and briefing meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing the Jedi from outsider views, especially these two. Dyad pair, they basically live in each other's minds. Obi-Wan does kick Quin out when he's on a 'not a date' with Satine.


	9. Home is where the heart lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about this land is beguiling, bewitching. The promise of endless ocean, if one just follows the water; the endless expanse of the curve of Stewjon from the mountain peaks; the five lakes glinting through verdant forests. Everything, and everyone, here is so alive. He daren’t stand so close to the edge as these winged warriors, but the Great Glen stretches out before him, interminable, skies the deep blue of Anakin’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to space Scotland. Hunt chapter to follow.

It is a rare moment of peace for the 501st who are on their vacation week at the same time as the 212th, again, with the special guest of General Quinlan Vos, who Cody and Rex think is brilliant, but they don’t admit it. Their own Generals are still their favourites. Hyperspace-stretched stars pass by their favourite viewscreen – the huge wide one that provides the best view of an incoming planet – and they share the silence between them. 

“Guys,” greets General Vos.

“General,” they return with polite friendly nods. 

He scoffs. “We’re on holiday, call me Quin.”

“Fair enough.”

They watch the stars another few minutes, comfortable in their peace. 

“Do you know where we’re heading, Commanders?”

Cody spares a wondering glance for his brother. “No.”

“Stewjon. He’s taking us home with him, which is a big deal.” He turns to them, yellow-on-brown wings curled tight to his shoulders, eyes hard in the way that means he is dead serious. “If your men screw this up, he’ll be furious, and disappointed.”

“They won’t sir,” asserts Rex confidently. 

“I know.”

Stewjon is a small, very green and blue planet – a little like Naboo, but with wider stretches of desert around the equators, and steeper mountains. Quinlan guides them up to the bridge, where Obi-Wan is piloting in silence, smiling occasionally at Anakin’s loud chatter. The young man seems younger, when they’re on leave, all the stress of war falling from his face. Ahsoka is pressed up against the window, staring and bouncing on her toes. 

“Excited, hatchling?”

“Uncle Quin, it’s so green!”

“It is,” he laughs, tucking her under his wing. “There is where the capital city of this continent is, do you see? And up there where we’re headed is the capital city of the Pecht. That means ancestors, because their lives revolve around family and clan, a bit like Mandalore. Some of the men are going there for the week, and some are going to hike from there to where we’re headed and vice versa.”

Rex leaves Cody providing silent support for their General, standing on the Ahsoka side of Gen- Quinlan. They fly gently down to a wide landing strip, letting out a loud gaggle of clones who are taking their holidays here. Some have gone to the neighbouring planets, some to other continents on this planet, and so they have less than 400 men on board, of whom almost half spill out here. The flight control tower operator quips a joke, or something that makes Obi-Wan laugh and Quinlan snort at any rate, before they gently lift off again. 

“We have almost an hour North to fly, and we’ll set down in the plain. The ship will be safe, and I’ll leave it unlocked for anyone who wishes to treat it as a hiking or camping base,” their General says over the ship comm, his usual sharp Core accent burring pleasantly into something much closer to the accents of the locals. Below them spread mountains and trees and rivers and lakes, and once or twice Rex thinks he sees flying people like his General – but he cannot be sure, so he stays silent, watching. Anakin and Obi-Wan land almost tenderly, Ahsoka bouncing out from under Quin’s arm to hang off her dad’s arm, plying him with rapid-fire questions about the people and the land and the hunting. 

“She’s never been,” whispers Quinlan to him, “Clan Gregor has been inviting us to bring her – and you – since the war began.”

“Why?”

“You’re family,” he says with a sharp grin, throwing a broad arm around Rex’ shoulders, “Welcome to our home.”

Despite best efforts, Obi-Wan and Anakin have changed into tartans and sprinted off the ship before Tap and Chlorine get a chance to scout the land, soaring into the blue sky with shrieks and whoops. Someone – they’re too high to make out who – whistles loud enough for it to rattle bones, and is answered. From the North, where the mountains reach into the very stars, it seems, green letting into purple and brown and then sparsely covered rocky cliffs, fly a group – squad? – of Stewjoni. 

“ALEXANDER!” 

“FIONNA!” 

Flying at breakneck speed, the General crashes mid-air into a small woman, the one who screamed at him, wrapping her tight as they free fall, inducing widespread panic from everyone except it seems Skywalker and Vos (who Rex has decided will be getting full names until they apologise to him for they stress they’ve out him under on his holidays) who are almost as enthusiastically greeting two of the other three tartan-clad clansmen. Clansmen? Tribesmen? What is correct? 

“Uncle Eion,” calls Skywalker, landing next to Ahsoka, “Soka wants to meet you!” 

A man, presumably Eion, sweeps down, his wings a shade paler than Obi-Wan’s, his hair likewise, but enough of him is visible in this Pecht’s face to make the relationship clear. “Wee ‘Soka, a’ las’,” he says, seeming to drop most of the letters in the words, rolling the vowels out longer than Rex had expected. He is unshaken by the troops openly staring between he and the spectacle of their usually refined General and his supposed sister cavorting like shinies through the air, many metres up. “Blest be your stay, all of you,” he says loudly, enunciating carefully so they understand. “Friends of my kin are friends of mine.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, Eion.”

The man smiles, ancient eyes lifting. Rex thinks his is a face more accustomed to frown than to laugh – not that laughter is foreign, merely less common than worry. General Kenobi lands in perfect synchronised time with his sister, flushed by wind and laughter, pulling her to their small group by the hand as Anakin wanders off to talk to the clones, hopefully about their plans for their week off.

“So this is your hatchling, eh? I’m your Aunt Fionna, chick.”

Ahsoka draws herself up, montrals darkening, glaring. “I’m no child!”

Fionna raised her eyebrows. “A child to my brother and a child to the Clan, war or no war.”

Bravo, signs Cody, do continue. His actions earn him a hard glare of his own. 

“Daughter, please,” sighs their General, “I would like this to be a peaceful week away from my concerns as a High General and Council member.” His sister adds something in the language of the people hereabouts – Gallic, or something like that, maybe it is spelled Gealic? Gaelic? Yes, Gaelic, decides Rex, watching the two adult Kenobis half-tease each other in the language he assumes is their first. Musical and lilting, but, rather like Mando’a, Rex thinks it might me very frightening to hear in a war cry. Do they have battle songs? He assumes they must do, he’s almost certain Skywalker sings them in battle.

Whatever is said, Ahsoka recognises at least a little of it, apologising sulkily to her Aunt – or, they assume she is apologising, since neither Rex nor Cody understand any of their patter, but she looks contrite in the way she does when her and Anakin have had another almighty row and either their dad or an Omega (read: Rex and Cody) or Boil intercedes and makes them calm down. Eion ruffles Obi-Wan’s hair, turning and flying to where a gaggle of vod are kitting up for their much-awaited hiking trip up one of the mountains. They’d told him the name before, but it slips out of grasp when he tries to remember. 

“So, Ander,” says his sister, “the twins have you a list of women.”

Obi-Wan groans; Fionna cackles, shoving him and lunging into the air just ahead of him. 

“Her wings look better built for darting, and Dad’s are more for the sustained speed, just right for battle,” observes Ahsoka, pulled out of her slight mood by the awe of watching Obi-Wan fly with another full-grown adult who isn’t Quinlan. Said Kiffar rapidly joins them, teaming up with his...step-sister? Sister? Did they even care, or was kin by blood more important than Clan by oath? He’s sure they’ll find out soon. Obi-Wan lands a touch on his sister’s ankle, hurtling downwards at dizzying speed when she turns on him. If this is play, he does not want to watch a true fight. He’d probably throw up. 

“Cody! Rex! We’re leaving,” their hiking vod call, waving up at the General and giving Anakin a last hug as they march off on a thin trail. He waves back, smiling. It’s good to see them free from worry for once. 

Eion returns to the trio. “We must move. A storm is coming. Your ship will be safe, but we must be at the Eyrie by nightfall, and it will take longer for you walkers. Anakin also must not fly the whole distance. It is not too far, but he is a child still.”

“Really?”

“Aye. His wings are not done, and he will want to hunt.”

“Huh,” says Ahsoka thoughtfully. Cody battlesigns rest-hopefully-child-submit. Rex agrees wholeheartedly.   
Anakin lands, breathless and glowing. “Can I fly this year?” 

“Not the whole way.”

He glowers. “But,” he starts to protest. Eion throws up his hand in a universal sign to stop, and he does, breathing carefully a moment before bowing his head in deference. How strange it is to see their madcap fledgling General accept guidance. 

“Come. Collect your things, we must begin walking. Ander and Fionna will fly ahead. We have a horse for you, Soka.”

“I can walk it!”

“You could,” agrees the man, wings positioned to break the wind sliding down the mountain, “but if you do you will not be able to hunt with us tomorrow.”

Their Padawan brightens. “A hunt?”

“I think we know where our General got his silver tongue,” teases Cody with a soft smile. 

“Cody,” sighs Eion, “you have heard nothing yet. Wait until he goes before the Elders. I am obeyed because I am the Seer of the Clan, and what I say is law. My brother, well. He is his own laws.”

Up in the lamp-lit eyries of Clan Gregor, reached by long twining dark tunnels which climb and climb for hours and hours, the family is finally relaxed, lazy on full stomachs of hearty food and weak tasty beers. Wings in shades of copper, auburn, rust, nut, mahogany, red lie over each other in the intimacy of the much loved. Conversation has flowed and ebbed but mostly flowed ceaselessly with the ease of the very dear, turning now to hunting and then to friends and again to teasing over lovers and friends. Fionna, who was also formally introduced as Chief, and has since informed the Clones not to worry about titles because they’re family now so they shouldn’t need them, has brought the conversation around to attachment and the reasons against it within the Jedi Code. It really is rather fascinating. 

“You see, it is not attachment that leads to evil. If your General were to prioritise his love of the one over his love of all, that would lead to wrong – to evil, through selfishness. But attachment to us? By my attachment to my people I convinced the Elders to make more noise in the Senate. By doing so we took action on slavery. By this we have saved lives – we work tirelessly. You are not the first soldiers to holiday here.  
Love is love. Attachment, possession, obsession, these are what the Jedi fight against.”

“What do we fight for, O wise sister of mine?” teases General Kenobi, leaning back into Anakin’s chest, tucking his wings out of the way with practiced ease.   
She smiles, wings relaxed on the warm rock behind her. Behind her, the dark sky is scattered with stars, one of the most beautiful skies he’s ever seen. 

“Everyone.”

“Oh,” breathes Ahsoka from Quinlan’s lap, where she’s cuddled up in a woven blanket with shell patterns on it, “I understand! I see it, now.”

“Love is not possession. Obsession is not love. To release is to respect freedom,” recites Eion. His sister nods decisively. They have spent only a few hours on Stewjon, and even less time with Clan Gregor, but they know that Eion is the final word on any matter. Obi-Wan called him the greatest Seer in five generations. 

Neither Rex nor Cody nor even Click know how many generations of Clones there have been. 

“Tell me about our dearest coz, then,” orders the Clan Leader (apparently a different position to Chief), who has been introduced as Donal, their General’s father. “I hear she works in the libraries?”

“Archives, yeah,” confirms Obi-Wan, “Flit’s doing good, but I haven’t seen her much in the last few years. When I go to the Temple I’m busy, to say the least. Sorry I can’t give you more detail.”

“Wolffe reckons Fox has a crush on her,” says Cody, not meeting his vod’s sharp glare. He feels like he’s glared at the vod’e a lot, recently. The announcement makes Quinlan bark in laughter, and Obi-Wan starts to laugh that near-silent whole body laugh of when he’s tickled by some irony. “Wolffe and Fox are two of our brothers. Wolffe serves with General Plo Koon, and Fox is a head of the Coruscant Guard. Click, our brother who manages the archive access of the troops, says they’ve been on a few dates.”

Heaving a sigh, Eion hands a bright clear stone to his smirking sister. She holds it up to the flickering firelight, watching the light dance through the stone’s red heart. Their mother smacks them both with the back of her hand, and the sibling tease not-argument returns to the gentle peace and lethargic affection previously. Rex is starting to think this place of high mountains and brutal screaming storms and electric bulbs powered by solar batteries could become a home. 

Come dawn, Obi-Wan and his sister are up, talking to the Twins Ben and Vine (are they nicknames? Ben sounds about right but Vine doesn’t sound like a Pecht name. He’s pretty sure no king or queen of this people has ever been called Vine) in their lilting tongue. Something about this land is beguiling, bewitching. The promise of endless ocean, if one just follows the water; the endless expanse of the curve of Stewjon from the mountain peaks; the five lakes glinting through verdant forests. Everything, and everyone, here is so alive. He daren’t stand so close to the edge as these winged warriors, but the Great Glen stretches out before him, interminable, skies the deep blue of Anakin’s eyes.

“Rex, did you sleep well?” 

“I did, General,” he says. 

“Call me Obi-Wan, or Ander if you wish. Everyone else will call me some variation thereof.” 

Rex is certain his flat stare conveys exactly his opinion of that. “Vos and Tano are eating your supply of hard-boiled sweets from Corellia.”

“Quinlan Vos if you are corrupting my daughter I’m taking Aayla clubbing,” he yells through the caves. Eyrie. Whatever is said in response is probably rude, because the two men bicker more than even Anakin and Ahsoka, making Obi-Wan race through to the sleeping room in a gust of wind caused by his wings, crashing into the sleeping quarters with a shriek and lots of yelling. 

Fionna and the Twins smile. “They’ve never changed,” says Vine (?) fondly. Ben (?) grins, all white teeth and blue eyes under a dozen mousy braids. It took him an hour to notice it last night, but this one – yes, Vine – is a woman, with her hair in the same short buzz as Rex’s, and her billowing silks hiding her figure entirely. “My name is Mairi, by the way, but everyone calls me Vine. I’m a Seer, kind of.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She smiles, and he realises their clothes and hair are deliberate – they’re preying on assumptions, to make people falter like he did last night and just now when he couldn’t quite remember. Good tactical choice. They’re effectively identical, under the trappings, with mousy wings that are much more subtle than the burning auburns of his General’s line. Through a tunnel in the rock comes another man, probably Anakin’s age, whose wings are startlingly pale. He greets the Twins – his aunt and uncle, then – by pushing Ben out of the eyrie and flipping the strap of her dirk into Vine’s neck, dodging the retaliatory strikes by hiding behind Fionna.   
“This is my eldest, Col. Col, this is Captain Rex of the 501st. He serves under Ani.”

Col’s eyes are dark, unusually so for the region Rex rather thinks, and his smile is the same as his mother’s – the same as Obi-Wan’s. “You’re Rex, eh? Nice to meet you,” he says, leaning over to clasp forearms, his wings shifting slightly to counterbalance. Cody offers a groggy salute, still only partway through his caf. “Are you hunting today?” 

“Yep, if that’s the plan.”

Col grins. “Absolutely. Sit down, my father is bringing some food over. It was his turn to provide.”

They sit on the spread of cushions from last night, dragging them around so Rex and Cody can drink in the stunning view of the Glen stretching out into forever. A total of fifteen Clones came to this settlement for the week, lodging in the kindness of these strangers. Ten more are staying in a guest cave-eyrie significantly lower down the mountain, closer to the paths they will take on their hiking. The air is crisp, cold, and a little thin perhaps, but certainly no problem for them, what with the planet having a marginally higher percentage of oxygen in the air than optimal for humans. “You have a wonderful view from your homes,” says Cody. 

Col smiles gentle and soft, looking wistfully out. “This is the best view from an eyrie, as befits the Chief’s Eyrie complex. The only eyrie higher is Uncle Eion’s.”

“Most of the eyries are connected by tunnels,” says Quinlan as he sits beside Col, taking a bowl of porridge (that’s their version of that oatmeal stuff, right?) and spoon from Vine with a grateful nod. “Little children can’t fly well enough to risk them flying over that drop. The cave where we left your vod’e last night is the first of the complex, leading into the long tunnels as you saw.” 

Ahsoka stumbles out of the connecting tunnel, blanket around her shoulders, sleepier than she ever gets opportunity to be when on campaign. How long since their little Padawan Commander has been allowed to be a sleepy teen, sitting with her uncle, safe under the wings of her flock’s adults. 

“Morning, brother,” says Fionna. 

“Good morning, my dears,” greets Obi-Wan, dropping a kiss on Ahsoka’s montral, and one on his sister’s cheek. Col says the greeting that Rex has deduced means their equivalent of good morning, as do the Twins. “Ani is still sleeping – he flew more than he should have yesterday, didn’t he?”

Cody nods. They all try, truly they do, but the fledgling is near impossible to ground. 

“He’ll insist on coming hunting with us, but he can watch Snips. What do you think, chick?” he asks her. She murmurs, tucking into his chest with a yawn. It’s the most adorable thing to watch, especially because their ordinarily impassive General melts and purrs to her. He laughs softly. “You’ll wake up soon enough, sweetheart. What do we hunt?”

“Red bucks today. There’s too many of them for the does, and it isn’t good for the land, not with us reliant on it. The Mother always provides, of course, and we have our Seers for trouble, but it’s best to control the populations carefully,” says Fionna, settling between Ben and Col, steaming bowl of porridge cupped in a cloth, “Col will be taking his first buck today, if all goes well.”

“Congratulations,” grins Quinlan, “Obi lost his first five.”

“One day, dear brother, I’m going to push you out of the Eyrie and Bant is going to film it,” says Obi-Wan with a perfectly innocent expression, then chokes on his porridge. Quin is looking at the wall, a smirk growing. “Oh my word, Quin, why would you do that to me. Ew. Quinlan. Why. What is wrong with you, kriffing hell. That’s in my head now.”

Quinlan continues to smirk, not meeting anyone’s eyes even as Obi-Wan slowly begins to laugh at whatever was shared down their dyad-bond, sparking the Kiffar’s own rumbling laugh. Within seconds they’re both howling, gasping, wings shaking, with everyone else smiling at their antics. Except Cody. He doesn’t smile at them. He thinks it encourages them. 

Rex has video of evidence of them planning trouble with the goal of making Cody laugh. Blackmail for a special occasion, he calls it. The sun rises; the family pass through in laughed greetings and affectionate touches to shoulders and hair and mock-ups of the upcoming hunt, half-yelled conversations and the not-rush of preparation. The Clones, Ahsoka, and Anakin are herded into the adjacent caves, which are Fionna and her family’s part of the complex, to be kitted for the hunt with steel daggers and real bullets. 

“We do this by tradition,” says Col quietly as he ties his tartans about himself, strapping them on with sleek leather belts, “or we do not do it at all.” He can understand that, he supposes.


	10. Recover, Redeem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of two, I think. Where do you want me to take this? Who do you want to see? I can't guarantee that your suggestion will be used, but I...haven't finished the next bit.

“Sir?”

Piett clicked his comm sharply.

“There are...angels. Angels in the hangar, sir. They just...landed here.”

“How,” he barked, angered by the complete lack of competency among the shinies. New recruits. Shinies was an outdated term – one that he could see made his commander sad, and so he avoided using it. Sympathy towards the Dark Lord himself, what a world he lived in.

“They had codes, sir.”

Oh, they did not. A traitor on his Lady? Someone who dared to infiltrate his people and put them in danger? The audacity of it made his blood boil. “Captain, you have the bridge until I return. Do not allow any situations to arise.”

“Sir, yes Sir,” said the Captain to his retreating back, words lost to the shh of the door and the rapid snap of his heels. His wrist comm buzzed once more, flashing up priority-green as opposed to the usual orange and red, which he ignored, far too irritated at his crew at large to handle a crisis of any kind without getting infuriated on the sort of level that usually would be associated with Lord Vader or the CMO after a fifty hour shift.

In a truly outstanding spurt of spite or otherwise vengeful emotion, the galaxy had seen fit to provide him with what did indeed appear to be a quartet of angels, or at the very least winged near-humans. Equally inconveniently, Lord Vader had reached them first, seemingly in a stare-off of some description with the shortest of the angels. Piett very carefully did not intrude on his arrival.

“My Lord,” he murmured respectfully, repressing the urge to treat them like foolish shinies.

“Lord? You, a laird?” demanded the middle aged woman, wings flaring. The artificial light caught the smooth feathers, illuminating them like wet rust, and for a moment he truly would have believed these people were angels, mythical beings sent to wreak justice. She continued, not giving his Lord opportunity to respond, “You were accepted to our clan because he loved you, and you have repaid us with pain and grief and murder.” Murr-duh, a rolling musical accent that seems to be Outer Rim. “Do you hold nothing sacred?”

“No.”

The tallest of the men, old and greyed with a truly spectacular beard and strawberry-blond wings held tight to his shoulders, spat disgustedly at his Lord’s feet; Piett touched his fingers to his blaster. Best times on the range, he thought sternly, meeting the man’s eyes, I can shoot you before you draw that blade.

Lord Vader sighed. “Be calmed, Admiral. She has the right of it. These people are my - guests.”

Oh? Some history, evidently, between them, given the fury and grief in their faces. The other man, who had not yet spoken, stretched his wings nonchalantly outwards to full width. There seemed an unbroken wall of russet feathers, a shade lighter than General Kenobi and Skywalker had appeared to have had.   
Ah. Kenobi and Skywalker were widely understood to be father and son, but nobody knew where either of them came from, despite the holonews running riot with gossip. Stewjon was the chief guess, but by time the two Jedi achieved true fame, the representatives of Stewjon in the Senate were a small pale blond man, an almost equally tiny brunette with charcoal skin, and a taller dark-haired woman who barely ever showed any of her almost-olive skin. They never passed comment, so the press went unsatisfied. Now however it appeared there was truth in some of the claims. 

What had that piece of galactic infamy to do with Lord Vader, the head of the Fleet since the fall of the Jedi ten years since? 

“I would not have come for him.” 

“Perhaps you should have,” spat the woman.

“We do not give in. We create our own solutions,” said the man whose wings were outstretched, voice as ancient as Piett remembered the mountains of Axxilia feeling. Surprised, and unsettled, he stared, incredulous, as Lord Vader came the closest he’d ever seen him come to slumped, worse than when he used a name to one of the Clone Troopers and went ignored, worse even than when the Emperor ordered the strafe of Ryloth – a commandment they’d done their best to do inefficiently. 

Lord Vader turned to leave. “Please, follow Lord Vader,” ordered Piett. The quartet of Stewjoni – for he was certain now that Stewjoni they were – met his eyes, cold and hard and viscerally angry. 

The suspicions growing in the back of his mind made him deeply uncomfortable. If he was correct, if the horrible though was true – 

Betrayal, of the most personal and agonising kind.   
The man in that suit was trapped. Fact. He felt pain and sadness and a furious sort of guilty responsibility for all under his command. Except Tarkin, but nobody ever felt anything for Tarkin but disgust. Especially Lord Vader, who had somehow arranged for the “Starkiller” plans whatever they were, Piett and Veers certainly had not been shown them by an irate Sith Lord, certainly not, to be deleted. 

“What’s happening?”

“Veers, I think I’m about to commit some description of treason.”

His friend looked at him for a moment. “Well, we’ve been serving Lord Vader over the Emperor for the last four years.”

“Do you think – after our shifts, meet me in my rooms, okay?”

Veers frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t entirely know,” he answered quietly, and quickly turned to catch up with their Lord and his ‘guests’. It wouldn’t do for a scene to be caused. 

He entered the small room Lord Vader usually used for diplomatic meetings of “dubious or uncertain outcome”, relieved that everyone merely sat in stony silence as opposed to the ever-possible risk of choking. 

“My Lord, ladies, gentlemen,” he bowed his head to each in turn. Respect could go a long way, and never let it be said Vader’s favourite Vice-Admiral could not show respect. 

With a sharp inhale, the woman who spoke earlier began. “We of the planet Stewjon have come with an offer. Your Emperor has reversed what little progress was made in clone rights and slavery, and this last Bill before the so-called Senate is the final straw. 

We have an...offer. Our Clans have decided to offer our warriors to unite with you against the Emperor. We believe we have a few, how should I say it, ‘key players’ in the defeat of that bastard.”

Piett raised his eyebrow. “Treason?”

The man with the rust wings fixed his pale eyes on Lord Vader. “Is it treason when we are removing one who does not do the best for his people?” 

Indeed. “I would suggest, then, that is my Lord Vader is so willing, an arrangement can be reached.”

The old man spoke. “My name is Donal, and these are my children Fionna,” the small sharp woman, “Eion,” of the pale eyes and heavy words, “and my niece Vine. As for you, Lord Vader, I have one question.”

“Do not,” warned his Lord as quietly as he ever could, the tone that had any being with any survival sense straighten. He went ignored. 

“What was the name of the man who stole you?” 

Kriff it, Piett hated having suspicions confirmed. Taking advantage of the sudden sorrow distracting his Lord and the four Stewjoni, he opened his padd, sending a text message to Veers. ‘Hope you’re ready for tea,’ he wrote, their agreed code for mildly treasonous activity. 

‘Always,’ came the response. 

Lord Vader set his head on the hard table with a low clank, more cyborg than human – what a fate for the Hero who lost what should have been his first years of solo flight to a war against evil parading behind merciless droids. For a moment, Piett saw the young man with burning blue eyes and ashed wings grieving his men, an afterimage of a once-great young leader caught in a moment of startling humanity by a simple camera, the image adapted to holo by one of the many Clones and circulated not-so-widely. Fionna sighed, laying her hand on his shoulder. 

“You know, you’re not the only person to have been lost. Quin Fell too.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“He demanded Ander kill him,” she said flatly, eyes a million lightyears away. Somehow, his Lord stilled further, as if his very molecules had frozen. “Ander brought him home to us broken, bleeding, his eyes almost the colour of his stripe.”

“Stop.”

“I tell you this to save your life, little nephew,” hissed the woman, tears glassing her eyes. He should not be here for this private matter. “Or do you not wish to make your apology?”

“He left me to die! And then he died, and I could do nothing,” spat his Lord. He really needs to leave. “Piett, don’t leave. Call Veers and order – order a course to Stewjon’s system. We’ll stop over Eru, make it look like I intend to go to the conference. Nobody will question it.”

“Of course, my Lord. We are loyal to you,” Piett insisted, wishing he had the Force so he could see if his Lord believed the attestation. ‘Prepare for tea, heading to Eru, come to R34f where met Correlian ambassador,’ and the wheels began to roll.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a prompt or comment or scream at me on my tumblr @graaaaceeliz?


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